I spent my last life in servitude. I foregoed the adventures of another life for the sake of those that I owed. I loved them, I tended to them. I worried about them, more, than I worried about myself.
I scrubbed, I sat, I waited. I feared. I asked permission, and waited for it. A standstill-spirit.
All of the sadness of the world on my shoulders, and the world confined to a small many persons around me. Each one. Claiming, it seemed, a portion of my mind. Real estate, owned. Not rented, or rented, with no rental agreement.
Owned by others, my will. The desire to do, to be, to live, to love, to run atop mountains and soar, to the simplicity of speaking my mind. Nay, thinking thoughts that my mind desired.
But there I remained, curled up in a corner in the corner of a corner, waiting. Always waiting. Waiting for the lords of my mind to give this simple peasant a day of freedom, an hour of freedom.
I aged. I grew old and thin. And the spirit in me wept. The days became darker, and as a snowy season fell upon the world, i stared out empty windows.
My screams became quiet panting, and I soon ran out of breath. The bare wood that was my floor, my life, collected me. And i sank into it, arms outstretched, a withered old skeleton. My skin dissolved, and the gray hairs on my scalp brittled away.
A lone wooden shack in a cold universe, far away from all things green.
Reborn. A star in a vast black universe. Stars twirling around other stars. Dancing. And as I remember my old life, I reach out with my cosmic arms and stretch myself yonder. I light the whole sky and am unafraid. A child, and prince, of the universe. |
